I had told Father everything again, step by step: I had been in the chamber, Cathal had come to the door, I had spoken to him briefly but had kept an eye on the cradle. I had gone back in, sat down for a while, then when I had checked on Finbar, he was gone. I tried once more to explain why this could not be a political abduction, but my father, a tolerant, reasonable man, was completely deaf on this particular point. Worse than that, he seemed to construe my attempts to explain as meaning either that I had temporarily lost my wits, or that I was using the Fair Folk as an excuse for my own negligence. What possible reason could the Tuatha De have to abduct a newborn son of Sevenwaters, he asked. Our family had been custodians and protectors of the forest since ancient times; it was a refuge for the Fair Folk. Why would they wish us ill? Besides, it was clear the changeling existed only in my mind—neither Father himself, nor Johnny, nor Aidan had perceived it as more than a crude wooden manikin. When I protested again, he cut me off short, for I was wasting precious time. With every moment that passed, one of his political rivals was taking Finbar further from home.

The interrogation continued. “Why would Cathal come to see you?” Father asked.

“He came to tell me he was going away somewhere. To say goodbye.”

“Going where?”

“I don’t know, Father. He didn’t say.”

“Aidan?” Father asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“I know nothing about this, Lord Sean. Johnny had given us no orders to ride out.” Aidan was pointedly not looking at me. His expression was grim.

“He seemed to think he would be leaving soon and not returning to Sevenwaters,” I said. “I don’t imagine he would have come upstairs unless he thought it was important.”

“Why you especially?” Father asked, suspicion evident in his tone.

“I don’t know, Father.” I stared at the floor.

“Has it not occurred to you, Clodagh,” Father said, “that the timing is a strange coincidence? Cathal decides to come upstairs, right into the family quarters, apparently to speak specifically to you when you are watching over my son. At that precise moment the baby is taken.”

His tone was perfectly steady. I knew how much that must be costing him. I wanted to tell him, Let go, weep, rage, throw things. Being a chieftain does not require you to be more than human. But I did not say it. My mother was barely holding onto her sanity. Finbar was out there somewhere, a tiny infant in the vastness of the forest. If my father could be strong, so must I be.